


Facebook Shares fill

by gaealynn



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaealynn/pseuds/gaealynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the tsn_kinkmeme prompt: Mark wants Eduardo to forgive him, but even though Eduardo says he's not mad at Mark anymore, he also says that he's realized that Facebook will always be more important to Mark than he is, and he's not willing to go back to that kind of relationship.  So Mark gives Eduardo half of his Facebook shares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I had really good intentions about cleaning this up before posting it. That did not happen.
> 
> Also, this is the first fic I've written in 10+ years, and I suppose it shows. Plus it isn't beta'd. Sorry!

Mark doesn't like people, formal events, suits, ties, these new shoes, or mingling, and he doesn't particularly care about whatever charity this is, either. He'd leave, but Chris has his elbow in a vice-like grip and isn't letting go, so Mark makes an attempt to smile at the couple sweeping up to them, instead of trying to slide away. The woman actually visibly balks before steeling herself and dragging her husband the last few feet, so Mark guesses he failed, but, again, he doesn't particularly care. They still came over, so it obviously doesn't matter if he actually appears welcoming or not. Mark tunes them out as Chris launches into his standard party small talk, how happy Facebook is to contribute, such a good cause, blah blah.

He hasn't slept in two days. Not particularly unusual, but it isn't exactly helping things, either. He wouldn't be here at all except that Chris had threatened to cut off his Redbull supply if he didn't attend. From anyone else it would be a ridiculous threat, but Chris and Mark's assistant, Angela, have some kind of demon pact going on, and last time Mark had skipped out Chris actually _had_ had Angela refuse to give him anything except water for over fifteen hours, so.

The thing is, Dustin is floating around here somewhere too, and almost half of his employees are out with some ridiculous bug, which means that, back at headquarters, Facebook is running with only a skeleton crew. And Chris can talk about good publicity all he wants, but if Facebook goes down, the fact that Mark was making inane small talk at a party, ostensibly about charity but really about showing each other how rich they all are, isn't going to do anyone any good. His fingers twitch at the thought, and he starts to scan the crowd for Dustin. Chris won't let Mark go, but Dustin is still Mark's best coder, and he can actually be a competent supervisor when he really puts his mind to it, so maybe Dustin can slip out and--

Across the room, there's a small knot of people. Even from here, they look jovial, relaxed, the group of them turned loosely inward like plants curving to catch the sun, focused on a slim form holding a champagne flute casually in one hand. And Mark has to blink a couple of times, but yeah, yeah, Chris has apparently forced him to attend a function with Eduardo. For a second, Mark seriously wonders if Chris had known, but, no, of course Chris had known, and suddenly Chris's absolute refusal to drift more than two feet from Mark's side makes perfect sense.

Eduardo looks... good, Mark acknowledges to himself. He hasn't seen Eduardo since the last day of depositions, and he hadn't given him a lot of thought since then, but Eduardo looks good. Really, really good, actually. Mark frowns.

Eduardo's stance is loose, relaxed. The hand holding his champagne is obviously occupied, but with his other hand, he's making a big, elaborate gesture -- his audience leans in, following the sweep of Eduardo's hand, enthralled, then falls back as Eduardo brings it down again. They laugh; Eduardo smiles charmingly. Mark can't hear them, but it's clear that Eduardo is telling a joke, and that the crowd around him is enjoying it. Mark watches a woman reach out and place one hand lightly on Eduardo's arm. Eduardo turns toward her just slightly, acknowledging, receptive, and Mark's eyes narrow.

"Chris!" Mark's attention is jerked back to his own side of the room as Chris's grip on his elbow tightens almost painfully. Dustin has appeared beside them, and appears to be attempting to convey an urgent message to Chris via semaphore. E-D-U-A-R-- Dustin is mouthing, hands making 'Abandon ship! Abandon ship!' gestures, hugely unsubtle, then sees that Mark is actually paying attention and goes completely still. That's two of them, then, Mark thinks, that hadn't known Eduardo would be here, tonight.

"Dustin, what..." Mark tunes them out again as Chris turns away from the by-now offended couple. Across the room, Eduardo is still entertaining his, his, his _harem_ of adoring elitists.

Then, like that sudden moment of silence in a noisy room, the group around Eduardo shifts just so, and for a split second, Eduardo is looking straight at him. Eduardo freezes, dark eyes going wide, the casual relaxation of before gone in a split second. In the next breath, the group shifts again, and Mark is staring at broad, tuxedoed shoulders instead of his ex-best friend.

"We're leaving." Mark announces after another second, rips his elbow out of Chris' now-lax grasp, and makes for the door.

***

Mark goes back to work, but he can't quite shake it, the image of Eduardo in his suit, smiling easily at those people.

The thing is that Mark knows, _obviously_ he knows, that Eduardo did things at Harvard with people other than Mark. Eduardo had classes and study groups and student activities, all of which involved people who were not Mark. And Mark had known, even at the time, that Eduardo must have been well liked -- the number of people that stopped Eduardo to talk in the halls on a daily basis easily eclipsed the number of people Mark spoke to in a month.

But it isn't like Mark had ever gotten to _see_ Eduardo with any of those other people. Not really. Most of the time they'd hung out in the dorms or at parties, and wherever they were, if Mark was there then obviously they were there together, and Eduardo would never have been rude enough to ditch Mark at a party in order to go hang out with other people.

And Mark had always wondered how Eduardo -- who stared so intently, who stood a little too close, who always spoke just a little too anxiously and sometimes stuttered in his haste to get words out and was just generally, you know, not terribly _smooth_ \-- how, exactly, Eduardo had gotten himself elected Vice President and then President of the Harvard Investment Association; how he'd ever gotten punched for the Phoenix in the first place.

It is belatedly occurring to Mark that, never having seen Eduardo really interacting with other people, maybe he had missed something. Something important.


	2. Chapter 2

Chris seems to genuinely regret the ambush, and spends the next week chasing Mark down at work in an attempt to apologize. Mark really doesn't want to hear it and Chris knows better than to interrupt Mark when he's coding in his office, so avoiding him really isn't difficult. But eventually the miniscule amount of attention it takes to avoid Chris becomes annoying -- he has a company to run -- so he lets Chris corner him when he ventures out into the rec room one night sometime after eleven.

"Mark!" Chris sounds like they haven't seen each other in months. Mark pops the tab on the can he'd just pulled out of the fridge, and stares at Chris as Chris shifts uncertainly.

"I have work to do, Chris." He prompts after a minute where Chris just watches him drink the soda, and Chris glares before apparently remembering that he's trying to apologize.

"Mark... about the End Hunger Dinner -- I should have told you that W-- uh, I should have told you." Chris shifts again, looking hopeful then disappointed as the silence stretches on. Mark isn't sure what Chris expects him to say.

"Yes." He settles on, finally, and throws the empty can away. He turns to pull another out of the fridge, and when he turns back around, Chris is still standing there, watching him. Mark blinks at him. "It's the middle of the night, Chris. Go home."

Chris opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it again. He goes.

***

Mark spends the next two charity functions with his shoulders hunched up around his ears, jumpy and even shorter tempered than usual.

(Before each one, standing on the steps and straightening Mark's jacket one last time, Chris had taken Mark by the shoulders and vowed, very solemnly, "He isn't here, Mark. Okay? I promise." The first time, Mark had honestly had no idea what to say, so he'd brushed Chris's hands off and stormed into the building without another word, determined to get the mandatory minimum appearance over with and get home as soon as possible. The second time he'd managed to get out, "I don't know who you're talking about," but he didn't think he'd fooled even the bellhop holding open the door, much less Chris, Dustin or, worst of all, Sean, who had decided last minute that he absolutely _had_ to attend.)

But both events go well -- which for Mark means that they're short and Chris only makes him talk to a few people --and a month after the second event, Eduardo's MasterCard statement stops showing charges in cities all over both coasts of the US (Boston, New York, Cambridge, Miami, LA, Cambridge, San Francisco, San Carlos, San Francisco ) and starts showing charges exclusively in Asia (Tokyo, Osaka, Busan, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Manila, Singapore, Singapore, Singapore).

The event after that goes just fine.

***

The terrible thing is that Mark had been doing just fine not thinking about it at all.

From the day of the Million Member party forward, Mark had had plenty to keep him busy. Running a website like Facebook took a lot of work, and it had been growing at a rate even Mark could barely keep up with; at the time, if he'd coded for four or five days with no breaks for sleep and barely any food, it had been out of necessity as much as anything else.

And then there had been the lawsuits. Meeting after meeting with his lawyers, going over the same ridiculous questions again and again and again, like they expected his answers to change, or just been hoping that they would. Until finally he'd gone over them one last time, signed a stack of papers, and come back to Palo Alto to start coding again, sans half a billion dollars, 5% of his company and a best friend.

And through all of that, he had managed not to think about it.

He'd made the best decision for Facebook. Eduardo hadn't gotten it; Eduardo had been in New York when he should have been in Palo Alto; Eduardo had been wrapped up in Christy when he should have been focused on their company; Eduardo had been a terrible CFO for the company Facebook was going to become. He'd made the best decision for Facebook.

But Mark had never planned for Eduardo to be so-- to be--

He'd made the best decision for Facebook. He'd thought Eduardo would understand.

Mark is really starting to think he might have missed something.


	3. Chapter 3

Mark likes coding because coding makes sense, and Mark understands it. Every line of code makes sense in and of itself, and then you put it together with another line of code and it makes more sense, and the more you add the more sense it makes until finally you put it all together and it all makes perfect sense and when you put in the right command it does exactly what it is supposed to do, always. And also you always know what the right command is, which is important, Mark thinks. On his computer screen, the cursor blinks back at him thoughtfully.

"Your meeting with Sylvia is in thirty." Angela says, and Mark starts as she drops a small stack of papers next to his elbow. "Mr. Zuckerburg?" She asks, not moving away; she knows better than to leave before she's received confirmation that Mark actually heard her.

"Yes, Sylvia, thirty minutes. Got it." Mark says, leaning away from his screen and pulling the stack of papers toward him. Angela stares at him suspiciously -- it's usually much harder to get his attention, he knows, but he hadn't actually been working -- before making a small, thoughtful noise and circling back around to her own desk.

Unfortunately, being CEO of Facebook does not mean that Mark gets to code all day and ignore everything else. The papers are resumes, which means that Sylvia, who has been his HR director for three years, has scheduled all of the final round interviews today. In thirty minutes he'll meet with her to review them, she'll brief him on each one, and then he'll spend the rest of his day sitting in the corner of the office Sylvia uses for interviews while Sylvia grills them mercilessly. He might, maybe, ask a question, but mostly he'll just shake their hand when they come in, again when they leave, and stare at them in between. It's a little creepy, he knows, but to be frank if they can't handle it for an hour, they probably shouldn't end up working at Facebook anyway.

These days, Mark spends anywhere from 25% to 50% of any given work week doing what he's mentally labeled 'CEO stuff.' Mark hadn't really thought about it much at the time, but if he had, he probably would have said that being CEO would mean that he got to do what he wanted to do, which mostly involved coding and also being right, right, so very, very right, all of the time. And when Facebook had just been getting off the ground, that had mostly been true. Mark had written code that revolutionized the internet, and everything else -- bills, food, laundry, housing -- it had all been taken care of somehow, while Facebook, the company, had sprung up around him as if it were a natural consequence of the sheer brilliance of Facebook, the site.

Then Sean had been arrested.

" _I'll_ get things under control." Mark had said, but the truth was that he'd had very little idea how to do that at the time. He'd looked up and realized that, while he knew every line of Facebook the site, Facebook the company was almost completely foreign to him. Facebook the company was made up of people, and while Mark had hired most of their programmers, Facebook the company had receptionists and assistants and representatives who Mark had never really met. And all of them, from Sean down to the guy whose job apparently consisted entirely of keeping them supplied with snack foods, had the power to bring Facebook to its knees as surely as a misplaced line of code or a server crash.

So he'd learned. He'd struggled through that first shit-storm with Sean by himself, redefining his own role as CEO, learning Facebook the company individual by individual, and reigning in those who had thought that Facebook was going to be their gravy train; he'd established himself as the OZ-like figurehead of one of the fast growing, most successful companies in the world, all while continuing to churn out the majority of Facebook's code. And if doing all of that meant that he'd worked a lot of 20-hour days, well, he'd been young, and high on success, and one of the most brilliant people on the planet -- he'd made it work, because he hadn't had anyone else he could trust to do it for him.

These days, Mark has Chris back from Harvard full time, and he has Sylvia, and three in-house counsel, and an army of corporate advisors, but -- since that night, there hasn't been a single hire or policy or project that had gone forward without Mark's say-so.

It isn't organic. It's a learned behavior -- or, if you listen to Chris, a learned psychosis -- but Mark has never been good at moderation. He either gives something his all or he gives it nothing, but trying to give something only part of his attention inevitably means it drops off his radar, and Mark can't afford for this to drop off his radar. So if Chris occasionally corners him to tell him that he needs to take it easy, or if Dustin sometimes bitches about Mark not being any fun anymore, well.

People are not actually programs. He can't take them apart and examine them line by line until they make perfect sense. In fact, Mark is convinced that people actually make less sense the more you get to know them -- unlike code, which lays itself out on the screen with everything right there on the surface, people have things they keep hidden. You think you know them but really all you know is what they're trying to show you; when you get to know them better, you find out that there are things hidden between the lines, traps and pitfalls just waiting for people who push too far without knowing what they're getting into.

Thankfully, mostly Mark only has to deal with people at work, where mostly what they want to show him is a good employee; and, truth be told, most people are pretty simple. Identifying people's goals, their talents, how they respond to correction, feedback, what impacts their performance -- Mark just needs enough data to see the pattern. Most of the time it's easy enough, and he's gotten better at it over the years; does he really need to understand _why_ someone will do something as long as he understands _what_ they're going to do? Facebook's high productivity and low employee turnover say no. These days, Mark rarely makes incorrect personnel decisions. These days, none of his employees withhold vital resources, or smash his computers, or look at him like he's done something completely horrible, when he's just trying to do his job.

"Mr. Zuckerberg!"

"I'm going!" Mark waves his hands to ward off Angela as she starts to menace her way in his direction; she glares, because he hasn't gone through the resumes at all; he'll do it while Sylvia is giving him the run down.

He needs more data.


	4. Chapter 4

"Dustin." In front of him, Dustin bops absently along to whatever is playing on his noise canceling headphones. They're huge, and obnoxiously white, and Mark hates them because Dustin sometimes (often) forgets that just because he can't hear himself singing doesn't mean anyone else in the room can't hear him. Mark reaches out and places a hand on Dustin's shoulder; Dustin shrieks and flails, and Katy Perry pours out of his speakers as a wild arm rips the cord of his headphones from its jack. Dustin clutches at his chest and staggers out of his chair in exaggerated surprise, even as he paws at his computer to mute it. Around them, work continues without even the slightest of pauses.

"Jesus, Mark." Dustin continues to clutch at his chest, making big sad eyes up at Mark. When Mark just stares back, Dustin straightens a little, shedding some of his usual levity. "Is something wrong?"

No. Yes. No? Mark isn't sure.

"I need to talk with you." He says instead, and heads for his private office. Across the room, Angela frowns at him -- he almost never goes into his private office unless it's to sleep -- and then at Dustin.

"What is it?" Dustin asks when they're inside, pulling the door closed behind him. Mark sits down at his desk, and gestures Dustin into the chair opposite. He places his hands on the desk in front of him, spreads his fingers out, and stares down. "Mark?" He's sure there's a good way to broach the topic.

"Tell me about Eduardo." He ends up spitting out; he doesn't know a socially appropriate way to ask after someone whose name he's barely heard spoken in years.

"... _w-what_?" At Dustin's choked question, Mark looks up. Dustin's eyes are huge, and he's gone a little pale; Mark frowns.

"Are you okay?"

"Am _I_ okay??" Dustin demands.

"Do you want some water?" Mark half rises and makes a move toward the mini-fridge in the corner. Dustin points at him violently and he sits back down, cautious. Across from him, Dustin takes a deep breath, then steeples his fingers.

"What's going on, Mark? Are you okay? Don't think I haven't seen Angela hovering over you like a hen with only one chick. Are you dying?" The last question is almost joking, but there's an underlying thread of real panic that Mark doesn't like.

"I'm not dying, Dustin. I'm fine." He says, and ignores the way Dustin slumps a little in relief. "Tell me about Eduardo."

"Ah.... what about him?" Dustin asks cautiously.

"At the-- at the thing-- the--" What had Chris called it? "The End Hunger dinner." God, that's a stupid name. "Did he seem...?"

"Seem?" Dustin makes a rolling gesture with his hands, but Mark isn't really sure where he'd been going with the question.

"... strange?" He finishes, weakly. It is really hot in his office, he needs to have Angela get someone to look at the vent in here.

"The _End Hunger Dinner_?" Dustin echoes, incredulously. "Mark, it's been four months!"

"I know. Did he?"

" _Strange_? No, he-- he looked the same as ever?"

"But he didn't seem... that is, he....” Christ, he can't say, 'Didn't he seem _unusually charming_ ,' that would sound stupid. Dustin is giving him the eye, so Mark marshals himself and tries another approach. "What did you think of him at Harvard? How would you have described him?"

"..." Dustin opens and closes his mouth a few times, staring at Mark, then makes a 'what the hell' gesture. "He was... smart, good looking, responsible -- always dressed nicely, obviously. Sort of a math geek, but he hid it well. Kind of old fashioned, a -- a gentleman, I guess? He liked people, and they liked him back -- he was nice, always thoughtful, you know, he was a... good... ..." He peters out under whatever look Mark is giving him, and Mark makes himself take a breath. Friend. Right. Eduardo had been a good friend; Mark's never said any differently. Still, none of that is particularly helpful.

What about when he stood too close? Didn't he seem a little needy? If people liked him so much, why was he always coming by to sit around in their suite? And he could never hide that he was a geek, he was always embarrassing himself telling stupid math jokes at parties, what the hell? Mark wants to ask, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. He clutches the arm of his chair, and breathes out again.

"Mark." Dustin leans forward and makes an aborted gesture, like he'd been about to reach over the desk for Mark and thought better of it; his voice is low, hushed, and Mark doesn't know what the look on his face means. "Are you sure you're okay? Seriously, what is this about?"

"I'm fine, Dustin. Thank you for answering my question." Dustin is a good friend, too, Mark reflects, and nods to Angela, who has been hovering outside the office, over Dustin's shoulder, almost the entire time. Angela opens the door to the office almost immediately, cutting off whatever Dustin had been about to say.

"Mr. Zuckerburg, I'm sorry, but you have to leave soon if you're going to make your meeting downtown." Angela says, as soon as she gets a good look at his face; Mark doesn't know what she's seeing there, but he's giving her a raise. Dustin frowns, but stands, shooting a wary glance at Angela before turning back to Mark.

"Mark--" He hesitates, then goes for it. "You know you can talk to me, right? Me, or Chris? We're both here for you, man. We're your friends."

"I know." He does, even if he honestly doesn't understand why. "I'll see you tomorrow, Dustin." And, as sincerely as he can make it sound, because he is, "Thank you."

"Right. Tomorrow." Dustin is still looking at him oddly, but he leaves, practically backing out the door, then turning abruptly and heading out of the main office area at top speed. Mark watches him go through the huge glass walls, then stands. Angela is still waiting by the door, face, for once, perfectly neutral.

"See you tomorrow morning, Mr. Zuckerberg," she says carefully, and pulls the door to the office closed behind them.

Mark goes home.


	5. Chapter 5

_Come see me when you get in. - C_

The note is waiting on his usual desk -- the one out in the main room -- when he gets in the next morning, propped up on his keyboard where he can't miss it. Chris is the next step in his data gathering, and Mark had known that Dustin would head straight to Chris after their meeting, but it's still a surprise to see it there. Maybe it's not related to what had happened the day before? Mark finds it unlikely, but he can't imagine why Chris would think it urgent. At any rate, it's a moot point; it's only seven past five, so while there are people in the offices -- Facebook is a global company, the office is never really empty -- Chris won't be in for a few more hours, at least. He sets the note aside, and brings up the project proposal he'd been planning to look at the afternoon before.

"How long have you been here?" Chris asks, and Mark looks up to find the other man standing next to his desk, Starbucks in hand. A glance at the corner of his screen reveals that it is now 8:12 -- the proposal had been intriguing, Mark had started coding a sample just to see how it might play out, and predictably he'd lost track of time. There's a plate with a bagel and cream cheese on the corner of his desk, too, although Mark isn't sure where it came from.

"Since five." Mark replies, and Chris sighs. His hair is disheveled, and he looks a little tired already; Mark wonders why he came in early.

"Great. Well, walk me to my office? Bring your bagel, we'll have breakfast," Chris offers, so Mark stands and follows him down the hall, snagging the bagel on the way.

Chris's office is on the next floor, and they wait for the elevator with Susan, a market analyst who's been overseeing their Asian market. She's just back in the office after two months off and two more months telecommuting from home, and that had been a hassle Mark is glad to be done with.

"I'm glad to see you back in the office in person, Susan," He tells her, because it's important to let employees know when they're valued, and also because employees like to know that the CEO knows their name.

"It's nice to be back in, Mr. Zuckerberg!" She replies, beaming as the elevator arrives and they step in, and produces an actual, honest to god photo of a baby wrapped in a green blanket; that's right, she'd been out on maternity leave, Mark remembers, and wishes the blanket were either pink or blue, because he has no idea if it is a girl or a boy. Mark darts a glance at Chris, who just raises his eyebrows and sips at his Starbucks. Mark manages to make a sort of appreciative noise, and escapes as soon as the doors open onto the second floor. Chris follows, waving back at Susan as the doors slide shut again.

Unlike the main floor, the offices on the second floor don't follow an open floor plan. Chris's office in particular is pretty cozy; the northern wall is all exposed stone work, and the floor to ceiling window behind his desk looks out right into the middle of a huge tree, so the morning sunlight filters in through green leaves, muted and calming. Instead of going to his desk, though, Chris sits down at the four-person table at the front of his office, gesturing Mark into the seat opposite, and sets his coffee down.

"So, Dustin is pretty convinced you're dying," Chris says without preamble.

"Yeah." Mark frowns and pokes at his bagel. "I'm not. At least not faster than anyone else. He's just being Dustin."

"Morbid, but good to know. What's going on, then?" Mark glances up at Chris, then out the window. Chris sounds tense, which is unexpected.

"I asked him how he would have described Eduardo, when we were at Harvard." He offers, but Chris just shakes his head.

"I know that, Mark. Why?"

"Because I wanted to know."

"Christ! Mark--" Mark leans back in surprise as Chris slaps a hand down on the table top, hard, the sound loud in the quite room. Chris takes a deep breath, and runs both hands through his hair before exhaling sharply. "Okay. Okay, sorry. _Why_ did you want to know, Mark?" Mark isn't sure he wants to explain, but it doesn't seem like the morning to withhold information that Chris wants.

"At the dinner he seemed different, but Dustin didn't agree. I wanted to know the basis off of which he was making that determination. I was going to ask you as well, but now I don't think I will. You seem pretty angry today." Chris groans and slumps forward, elbows on the table, hiding his face in his hands. Mark thinks he catches a muffled 'no shit,' but its pretty quiet, so maybe not.

"Okay. Okay. Mark." Chris straightens up again, and he doesn't look angry so much anymore as he looks a little desperate. "I need you to leave this alone. Okay? Things happened, Facebook settled, it's done. You saw him at a party, which I am really fucking sorry for, but nothing has changed."

"So you _don't_ think he was acting strangely?" Mark demands.

"No! He was acting like Eduardo, okay, he was finally acting normally and even if something was different, it's been years, Mark."

"I know that. What do you mean, 'finally'?" He asks, narrowing in on the only part of Chris' response that seems relevant. Chris blanches a little, which only makes Mark that much more interested in his answer. "Tell me," He demands, and Chris raises one hand in a warding gesture. "Chris."

"Just -- Mark. Look. You and Dustin were out here, so you didn't--. I mean, was I just supposed to-- I was still going to school with him, Mark, I couldn't just pretend like I'd never known him." Chris clenches his jaw and says, "He needed someone who knew what was going on, okay? It isn't like I was his first choice, but I was pretty much it. Everyone knew about the lawsuit, but nobody else knew about the rest of it, or cared, and he needed someone to look after him. I'm not sorry about it." He finishes defiantly, "You can fire me if you want, but I'm not sorry about it."

"I'm not going to fire you." Mark forces out over the rushing in his ears. The 'rest of it'? What does that even _mean_? "You never said-- anything." He says, and swallows twice to force down the acrid taste in his mouth. Chris laughs a little, jagged.

"No. No I didn't." His voice is tired, but the bite is gone. Mark hopes he's done being angry. Chris has never really been angry with him before. He is definitely not asking Chris anything else about Eduardo, now.

"God." Chris says, after a couple of minutes of empty silence, and sighs again. He's definitely done being angry, and Mark starts to feel a little less lightheaded, feels his heartbeat calm down as Chris visibly pulls himself together across the table. After another couple of minutes, Chris looks up again, determined. "Look, Mark. I know how you are when you get onto something, but you need to let this go." He's using his Director of Public Relations voice, low and smooth and cajoling, and Mark almost nods along automatically before catching himself. "Facebook doesn't need the kind of publicity that this could generate, so just... For Facebook, and _for yourself_ , let it go. You're both my friends, and I don't want this for either one of you. _Please_ , Mark." He looks so hopeful, Mark knows he can't tell Chris the truth.

"I understand," he says.

He has no intention of letting it go.


	6. Chapter 6

Section 646.9(a) of the California Penal Code defines a 'stalker' as the following: "Any person who willfully, maliciously, and repeatedly follows or willfully and maliciously harasses another person and who makes a credible threat with the intent to place that person in reasonable fear for his or her safety, or the safety of his or her immediate family."

Therefore, since Mark has not made and has no intention of making any threats regarding Eduardo's person or Eduardo's immediate family, Mark is not _stalking_ Eduardo. But he really does need more data, and Eduardo often happens to be on business in California, so Mark is just... taking advantage of that fact. Really, he's not even following Eduardo himself, he's just hired a couple of PIs to find out some information. He doesn't even have to pay them in cash or meet them in a dark alley or anything; he writes them a check, and they come to his house (not the offices, never the offices) to report back in; it's all above board. If he can legally hire people to do it, it can't be that weird, right?

And anyway, he only does it twice. That's all it takes.

The first time John and Sam report back in, with photos and one short video, is just after Eduardo makes a trip back to California for a three-day conference. The photos are mostly of Eduardo, dressed, as usual, in sleek, dark suits, shaking the hands of other men (and some women, but mostly men) in suits, all of them probably standing around congratulating themselves on how much important networking they're getting done. Eduardo always had loved networking.

Nothing in the photos is helpful -- all they tell him is that Eduardo talks to about a million different people, and that he looks good. Better than pretty much anyone else in the photos, actually, but that's not strange, or any different than it had ever been. The video is more helpful.

The video, which is eight minutes long, is of Eduardo doing a short presentation for a small group of businessmen. The subject matter is boring -- migration patterns for schools of fish? really, 'wardo? -- but Eduardo makes it interesting. He's confident in a way that Mark can't remember him being. His voice is even and strong, pitched a little deeper than Mark remembers; his stance is as casual as it had been at the charity gala, his body language inviting, but not needy; he smiles easily, and it isn't 'wardo's smile, but it's a nice smile, as attractive and as cookie-cutter-perfect as the suit he's wearing.

Mark watches the video and wonders how Eduardo had had any trouble getting investors in New York -- but of course, he realizes (the fourth time through), it's been years, and Mark has been thinking of Eduardo, all this time, as though he'd been trapped in amber, forever preserved during the summer after their sophomore year, or in those deposition rooms; but time has moved on. Mark had been building Facebook, but Eduardo had gone back to Harvard, secured another summer internship the following year, gotten his degree, and had had firms offering him staggering starting packages after graduation. Mark had known all of that, intellectually, but seeing this video, seeing Eduardo effortlessly spin a pretty obscure, boring topic into something interesting and relevant and important, Mark realizes that this isn't a video of the boy he'd gone to college with; it's a video of someone he's never met. The thought makes something in his chest tighten unpleasantly, and he hides the thumbdrive with John and Sam's report on it behind his copy of the Iliad before sending their next set of instructions.

 _John -- I need video of him actually interacting with people. Not in a business setting. Still not flying you to Singapore, no idea about the international implications for Facebook. - M_

*

The second time Josh and Sam report back in, a month later, they've managed more than he'd hoped for. Because, apparently, paying for the 'platinum' package means that Sam -- Samantha -- will put on something alluring and go hunting for innocent billionaires, although the hand-scrawled note that Sam sticks to the thumbdrive ("OMG!! Guess I'm not his type ;) ;) ;)" with the winking smiles actually drawn out by hand) seems to indicate that she didn't actually, you know, which Mark is grateful for because, seriously, he's not sure if that counts as prostitution or not, and that is not a question he wants to have to ask his lawyers.

The video is of Eduardo in a crowded nightclub. John tells him, when he drops off the thumbdrive, that Eduardo is in San Francisco for a friend's bachelor party and subsequent wedding, and, sure enough, Eduardo is there with a group of men and women, and one of the men is wearing a t-shirt that reads 'Bride(groom)' in sparkling pink, and they're all pretty drunk. Mark watches most of the video with a sense of frustration, because it's just the same Eduardo as in the video of the conference presentation; it's an Eduardo that Mark doesn't know. The drink has clearly made him a little bolder, a little more affectionate, but for the most part he's relaxed, confident, yet still a little distant even when he's throwing an arm over the bridegroom's shoulder. Mark doesn't even know if Eduardo knows any of the other people in their party, but it doesn't seem to matter -- Eduardo acts just about the same with all of them, which is to say, nothing like Mark remembers him being.

After about twenty minutes of this, though, Eduardo breaks away from the group and heads toward the bar, which doesn't make a lot of sense, as the group's waiter has been particularly attentive. As he moves off through the crowd, Sam follows him, leaning over to speak directly into the mic hidden in the ridiculous flower pin attached to her dress strap, and says, "I'm going go over and talk to him," voice barely audible above the thumping beat of the club's music.

But by the time she makes it to the bar, Eduardo's attention has already been captured. In fact, Eduardo doesn't appear to be interested in the bar itself at all; instead, he's turned toward one of men _at_ the bar, and Mark feels an electric shock of recognition, because suddenly the cool Eduardo is gone, and in his place is someone Mark finally recognizes. Because Eduardo is standing too close, his head is tilted down, shyly uncertain, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. And Sam's mic can't pick up what Eduardo is saying, not from this far away, not over the club's music, but Mark can tell from the slightly embarrassed grimace, the anxious grin, that Eduardo is tripping over his words a little.

All of this pales in comparison to the man Eduardo is oriented towards. Because everyone else in the club is dressed to the nines, tanned and fit and having a great time, but the man to whom Eduardo is speaking has a windbreaker thrown on over a t-shirt and jeans; he has slightly curly hair, and would be shorter than Eduardo even without the way he's slouching, and he's pale and a little soft, and he looks _exceptionally_ bored. And with the benefit of being an outside observer, it is obvious, _incredibly_ obvious, from the way Eduardo is leaning in, that Eduardo is hitting on this guy, this guy who looks.... well, who looks like....

 _Holy shit._


	7. Chapter 7

Josh and Sam get him an invitation to the wedding and reception, which is Saturday. Mark doesn't know how they get the invitation, and he doesn't care. When he gets into the office on Friday morning, he has Angela send his suit out for same-day cleaning, and then he sends her out of the office to buy the most expensive item on the Oliver-Norman registry. When she asks, he tells her that Michael Oliver and Brett Norman are friends of his, and ignores the extremely dubious look she shoots him while she wraps an eighteen-thousand dollar espresso maker, which he thinks they probably put on there as a joke but whatever, they're getting it now.

Dustin, fortunately, is out of the office on a long weekend, and Mark isn't scheduled to meet with Chris again until Monday, so he makes it through the work-day without anyone harassing him. He stays until eleven and then he goes home and goes right to bed.

On Saturday morning, he gets up, considers eating breakfast but decides against it, showers, wishes that he'd thought to get his hair cut, puts on his suit, and steps outside to find his car service already waiting for him.

"Looking good, Mr. Zuckerberg," Tony, his driver, says with a jovial chuckle. In fact, this is always what Tony says, but this morning it actually makes Mark feel marginally better.

"Thank you, Tony." He says, and slides into the back seat, allowing Tony to close the door behind him. He has no idea what he's going to say to Eduardo, which is unfortunate, because he's aware that, when he's forced to speak on the spur of the moment, people often consider what he has to say harsh. But what _is_ he supposed to say? 'Sorry I didn't realize you wanted to sleep with me, I have since become aware that this makes people more sensitive and if I had known I would have handled things differently'? He wishes he could have talked to Chris about it.

The ceremony is probably beautiful. Mark shows his invitation to the country club's doorman just as the last guests are being seated, and he manages to slip into the last row of chairs on the veranda right before the two grooms appear to begin their walk down the aisle. But he misses most of the ceremony, because all he can see is the back of Eduardo's head in the second row. Every now and then Eduardo dips his head toward the man in the seat next to him, and Mark recognizes the slightly curly blond hair with a sense of sick outrage.

After the newly minted Mr. & Mr. Oliver-Norman walk back down the aisle, hand in hand, there's a break in the schedule before the official reception starts, and Mark drifts aimlessly around the periphery of the crowd, running opener after opener through his head, but none of them seem right, none of them are exactly what he needs to make Eduardo like him again, but it doesn't matter because,

"Brett told me you were coming, but I honestly thought that pre-wedding jitters had just made him lose his mind," Eduardo's voice says, suddenly next to him, and Mark feels his pulse skyrocket as he turns. Eduardo is resplendent in a dove gray suit, every line cut to perfection, but the corners of his eyes are tight, and his fingers are white where they're curled around the wine glass in his hand.

"I wanted to talk to you." Mark manages after a second. Eduardo doesn't respond, just raises his eyebrows slightly and makes an 'as you will' gesture. He looks a little bored, and Mark feels frustration bubbling up, a feeling which only intensifies when the man from the bar walks up and Eduardo turns away from Mark to greet him.

"There you are! Who's this, then? Another one of your friends?" The man asks, and Eduardo chokes a little.

"We knew each other in college," Eduardo manages after clearing this throat, which Mark supposes is one way of putting it. And then, because Eduardo can't help himself, "Jason Mayor, this is Mark Zuckerberg."

There's no spark of recognition at the name; Jason just sticks a hand out and grins gamely. Mark is clearly just one more person in a long string of introductions, and the feeling that realization causes strips away any inclination he has to pretend at politeness. After a second, when Mark doesn't move to shake his hand and just glares furiously, Jason glances at Eduardo and drops his hand uncertainly.

***

"We need to talk privately, excuse us, Jason," Eduardo says finally, and touches a hand lightly to Jason's arm in apology. Jason seems appeased by the gesture, and makes no move to follow as Eduardo walks out of the main room. Mark watches Eduardo walk away from Jason with a certain feeling of satisfaction, and shoots a warning glare over his shoulder at Jason as he leaves.

"What are you doing here, Mark?" Eduardo asks tightly when he's found a small, empty office and closed them in.

"I told you, I want to talk to you."

"Why?" Eduardo asks, discarding his wine glass on the empty desk and facing Mark head on.

"Because -- I wanted say --I have recently become aware that you harbored feelings for me which were not strictly friendly. During college. That is, that you wanted to have sex with me." Mark clarifies when Eduardo just stares at him blankly. He hurries along, "And that, given that information, in retrospect, your reaction to the share dilution, which was unexpected at the time, now seems more predictable, and therefore my failure to anticipate it now seems somewhat foolish."

"That is the worst apology I've ever heard." Eduardo says flatly, and Mark frowns.

"Strictly speaking, it isn't an apology."

"Well, I guess I'm glad you realize that," Eduardo mutters, and Mark shakes his head, frustrated.

"I mean that I believe an apology generally implies that the speaker would act differently if given a chance, and while I regret that the decision created unnecessary tension between us, I made the decision that I had to make for Facebook, and I would do that part again."

"Oh my god," Eduardo breathes, bringing both hands to rub at his face in disbelief, "Are you telling me that you came here to _not apologize_ to me?"

"I made a reasonable business decision, I don't think people generally apologize for those."

"A 'reasonable business decision'?" Eduardo echoes, and there's finally something in his voice other than polite disinterest, "Taking advantage of your best friend's _trust_ to cheat him out of the company he _co-founded_ is a ' _reasonable business decision_ '?"

"You were a danger to Facebook," Mark defends steadily, although now that he's thinking about it, he can't quite remember the exact line of reasoning that had gone into it. "You didn't get it, you went to New York and kept going after advertisers, and--"

"I _went to New York_?" Eduardo interrupts, voice rising, and yeah, there's definitely anger there now, and Mark's chest is getting tight, this isn't the way it was supposed to go, "That's it, that's your reason? Going to New York was so terrible I had to be cut out of the company immediately, but you'll let an _asshole_ like Sean Parker, who's been arrested for cocaine possession _three times now_ stay? Going to New York is _worse than that_? "

"I told you I needed you to come out! _You didn't come out!_ " Mark shouts, and it feels too true, it feels like the gripping panic of that entire summer, when everything had been going too fast and Eduardo hadn't come and wouldn't listen, and then he'd frozen the account, pushing it in Mark's face that he could just walk away, anytime, because, "You didn't care about Facebook! All you cared about was making money off the site!"

"I was trying to do what I thought Facebook needed, Mark! I'm sorry I _'didn't get it'_ ," Eduardo shouts back, all of the practiced distance gone, "I'm sorry I wasn't a fucking _genius_ , but if you think it was ever about the money, then fuck you!" Eduardo is really enraged now, practically shaking with it, and through the shock Mark hopes that the walls of this office are thicker than they look, because otherwise the entire wedding is listening to this argument. "I gave you the money for Facebook because _you_ wanted it, I was trying to make it work because it mattered to _you_. It was _never_ about Facebook. I would have given you every penny I had, even if you'd been building fucking Ferris wheels, so _fuck you_. You cut me out as soon as you had Thiel's investment, so don't tell me all _I_ cared about was the money!" Eduardo is panting, his face flushed, and he has the heel of his right hand pressed over the left side of his chest, like actors on TV do when they're having heart attacks. Mark reaches out a hand before he can stop himself, because it had been easy to ignore when he didn't have to _see_ it, but the _look_ on Eduardo's face-- but Eduardo knocks his hand aside and spins away so that his back is to Mark.

"It wasn't like that," Mark protests weakly. Eduardo's got the timing all right, but the reason all wrong; nothing is going right. Eduardo just laughs, short and bitter. When he turns around, his face is calmer but no less angry.

"You're so full of bullshit, Mark, and I can't even tell if you believe it or not. It doesn't matter. We settled, and we both have more money than we'll ever be able to spend now, so who cares? I've moved on, just leave me alone."

"Oh, you've 'moved on'? To _Jason_?" Mark bites out, and immediately regrets it; but Eduardo just laughs again.

"Touché, Mark, you got me! I guess you win after all," He says mockingly, but there's something else in his tone -- it's almost thoughtful, but Mark doesn't like it, because it doesn't seem like a good kind of thoughtful, and he doesn't understand the look Eduardo is giving him, and then, before he can really process what's going on, Eduardo is moving in with a murmured, "What the hell, it's all ruined anyway."

"'wardo--" Mark gasps out, but Eduardo pushes him up against the wall roughly and covers Mark's lips with his own, and Mark forgets exactly what he'd been trying to say. Eduardo tugs at his hair to get him to tilt his head back, and Mark follows the motion automatically, dazed and confused and desperate. Everywhere Eduardo's hands are touching him, brushing under his coat and along the side of his neck, Mark feels like he's on fire; he pushes into it thoughtlessly, practically choking on the feeling welling up in his chest; Eduardo brushes his tongue lightly against Mark's lips and Mark is dizzy with it, tangling his hands in Eduardo's jacket to pull him closer, opening his mouth to bite at Eduardo's lower lip, to let him in, to make sure that he stays with Mark, that he doesn't--

Eduardo pulls away, pulling Mark's hands off his jacket, almost gently, ignoring Mark's 'no, no, no, 'wardo, no' and pushing Mark away.

"I shouldn't have done that," He's saying, and Mark shakes his head frantically, but Eduardo just catches Mark's hands when he makes another grab, and holds them away from himself firmly. "No, Mark, listen to me. I can't do this with you. Even if-- even if you think you're sorry, which I guess you are in your own unique way, I can't do this with you. It was never about Facebook for me, but it's always about Facebook for you. It's always _going_ to be about Facebook for you. You just dropped me, Mark," and his hands are shaking a little, or are those Mark's?, "and I never saw it coming and I still don't understand why, and I can't --"

"'wardo, no, _please_ , I won't--" Mark begs, because he hates the look on Eduardo's face, he _hates_ it, and it's even worse than when Eduardo had smashed his laptop, because he knows what it means this time, he knows that it means that Eduardo is leaving and is never going to speak to him again.

"Shut up, Mark," Eduardo says unsteadily, and presses in again, still holding Mark's hands between them; he doesn't kiss Mark this time, just presses against him, warm and close, and Mark just waits, shaking, because he's fucked it all up, everything he says is wrong so he just won't say anything anymore, and maybe, maybe. But Eduardo just sighs shakily, and presses a light kiss onto Mark's temple. "I loved you so much," Eduardo confesses, voice choked, and he's gone, pulling the office door shut behind him.

After a while, Mark pushes away from the wall and steps to the door himself. The hallway is empty, and he doesn't meet anyone as he heads for the back of the club, slipping past the puzzled cooks in the kitchen and out the back door, into the rear parking lot where Tony is waiting with the car.


	8. Chapter 8

Mark leaves his suit in a long line of scattered pieces from his front door to his bedroom, and climbs under the big down comforter on his bed in just his boxers, and tries to sleep, and tries to sleep, and tries to sleep -- but it just won't come, even though he doesn't want to be awake anymore.

When the numbers on his alarm clock shift over to 2:00, he gets up. He gets dressed. He walks down to his little Prius; he drives through the empty streets to the offices. He parks; he goes in. The main office is empty. The lights are off.

Mark walks past his usual desk, into his private office; leans over his chair to push the power button; slides into his chair. Stares out at the empty desks, the heart of Facebook, and thinks, _this is it_.

Nothing has changed. Everything is the same as before.

(The only difference is--)

He is still a genius.

(The only difference is--)

He is still the CEO of one of the most successful companies in the world.

(The only difference is--)

He still has responsibilities.

( _i loved you so much_ )

Nothing has changed.

( _it's all ruined anyway_ )

This is Mark's life.

The only difference is, now he knows it.

*

Mark codes. He is the founder and CEO of Facebook, and he puts his hands on the keyboard and he codes, because that is what the founder and CEO of Facebook does. Eventually, it gets light and then dark and then light again. Eventually, there are people in the offices. Eventually, Angela brings him food, which there is no reason not to eat. Eventually, his employees go home, and come back and go home again.

Mark codes. Mark knows exactly why he writes every line of code, and he always knows exactly which line to write. He never writes a line without knowing why, and he never writes a line thinking he will get a result other than the result that the line will actually cause. He never writes the wrong line because he is confused, or scared. He never writes the wrong line, period. Mark understands how to code.

Mark codes. He is the founder and CEO of Facebook.

*

"Mark. Mark. Fuck, _Mark_."

Mark's computer is gone, and it takes him a second to understand that this is because he is no longer facing his computer. Someone has spun his chair around.

He blinks up at Dustin.

"What?" He asks, and is surprised to find his tongue clumsy with disuse. Dustin looks really angry.

"Have you been here since _Sunday_?" Dustin demands.

"Maybe?" He tries to count the days back, but they don't really make any sense.

"Don't try that with me, Mark, I looked at the security footage, _you have been here since Sunday_."

"Okay. Do I have a meeting?" God, he probably has meetings, what day is it? Did he go to his meetings? Why would Angela let him miss his meetings?

"Meeti-- Christ, Mark. It's _Wednesday_. Angela has been rescheduling all of your meetings all week. You're not in college anymore, you can't do this, you're going to kill yourself. We don't even have a major push coming up, what the fuck. You need to go home." And Dustin reaches down to grab Mark's arm, pulls Mark to his feet, and --

 

\-- Mark is laying on his couch. The one in his office. His head really hurts and his eyes are so dry it hurts to open them.

"... don't know ... get ... out of the office ..."

He turns his head, and blinks over at his desk. It's right there, his computer is still on, he could just,

"Mr. Zuckerberg?" Angela asks carefully. Mark blinks and she comes into focus suddenly, kneeling right next to the couch. Her eyes are red and her mascara is all smudged, and Mark frowns.

"What's wrong?" He asks. Angela just stares, then presses a water bottle into his hand and prods him to sit up to drink it. His hands are oddly uncooperative, though, so he just holds the bottle until Angela takes it from him again and twists off the cap.

"Thanks, Angela," someone says, and then Chris is there, too, touching Angela's shoulder as she rises. "Could you call a car?" Angela clears her throat several times and nods, heading for the door. Beyond her, the main office is empty again, even though it's the wrong time of day. Mark pulls himself fully upright on the couch, which takes more effort than it should, and sips from his water bottle.

"Mark," Chris says, seating himself carefully on the couch, "What's going on here?"

"I went to see Eduardo," Mark reports dully, and is horrified to hear the waver in his own voice. He takes another sip of water. He doesn't look at Chris. "He said he," Mark chokes, but he doesn't have the words for it; it won't sound the same if Mark says it to Chris. "He said, he," Mark tries again, but,

"I know," Chris says, defeated, and,

"Chris, I--"

"I _know_ , Mark. I'm sorry." Mark breathes in, unsteadily; Chris puts a careful hand on his shoulder, and there's a hiccup, a moment, a hitch in his chest that Mark thinks means that if he weren't so dehydrated he would be crying. But he doesn't. He just sits on the couch with Chris until Dustin comes back in.

"Hey. I've got everyone corralled in the break room, and the car is out front, so let's go," Dustin says quietly, and they pull Mark to his feet.

"Sorry," Mark whispers, and lets Dustin wrap an arm around his waist. Dustin just shakes his head.

"You scared me, Mark," Dustin says, very low, like he doesn't want Chris to know, "You scared all of us. Don't do it again, okay?"

And Mark wants to promise Dustin he won't, but.

"I'll try," he says instead, to both of them, because he's ruined everything, and he doesn't know what he's doing, but they are good friends, better than he deserves, and it's as close as he can get to what they want to hear without lying.

One of the company cars is waiting out front, pulled right up to the entrance, the driver holding the back door open as all three of them shuffle out. It isn't Tony, and Mark is obscurely glad. Dustin lets Mark fumble his way into the back seat, but it isn't until Dustin starts to slide in after him and Chris begins to circle around to the other door that he realizes they mean to go home with him.

"No," He says, shoving at Dustin ineffectually. Dustin stops, hovering awkwardly, and Mark says, "I just want to go home. I want to go to sleep," but what he means is _i want to be alone_ and _i don't want to feel this way anymore_.

"Mark," Dustin says cautiously, but Mark cuts him off with a shake of his head.

"You and Chris need to stay here. Damage control, right?" Mark asks, and realizes through the fog that it's true, because of course there's going to be damage control when the CEO passes out in his own office, there are going to be statements to write and all of the employees will have to sign an addendum to the standard non-disclosure and their stock is going to plummet if any of it gets out. And Mark knows that he should care, but he just doesn't; he pushes at Dustin again anyway, because it's what he's supposed to do. "I'm still your boss," he says tiredly, and Dustin gives him one last look and lets himself be pushed out of the car, and Chris tells the driver to make sure Mark goes straight to bed, and Dustin tells him that they'll be by after work to check on him, and finally, finally the driver closes the door and Mark lets himself close his eyes, and doesn't open them again until they're pulling up the driveway to his house.

It isn't until his third fumbling attempt actually gets the key into his front door lock that he realizes the driver is actually standing at his right shoulder, like he thinks he's going to follow Mark into his house, maybe tuck him into bed. "I don't think so," Mark says flatly, and the driver looks like he's weighing Chris's instructions against Mark's displeasure, so Mark says, not even joking, "I will call the police if you follow me into this house. Thank you for your help, but go away," and shuts the door in his face.

His house is quiet, and empty. He goes to the living room and lays down on his expensive couch; he closes his eyes and pretends it is the one that had been in their Kirkland suite, that he can hear people down the hall, shouting at each other about class and spring break and dinner; that at any moment Chris or Dustin or Eduardo might come in, and they won't be mad, or disappointed or resigned, because he won't have fucked it up yet, he'll still be someone they're happy to see, someone they're glad to know.

He thinks about how it would have been if Eduardo had come out that summer, if he'd understood better about what Mark had wanted Facebook to be, or if Mark had tried harder to explain about the ads. How it would have been if Mark hadn't been so scared, or if he hadn't been so determined to prove that he wasn't; if he'd just said, _I want you to come with me_ instead of laying it all on Eduardo's role as CFO. He thinks about how it would have been if he'd never come up with Facebook at all, if he'd stayed at Harvard, if he'd ever looked up and realized what it meant that Eduardo was always there. He wonders what it would be like if he weren't rich and famous, if he were just an asshole who had Eduardo's smiles and gentle touches and absentminded kisses.

He finds his house phone and calls his lawyer, the one that handles his personal business and doesn't care about Facebook. He tells his lawyer what he wants, and because he pays his lawyer a ridiculous amount of money as a retainer, his lawyer draws it up right away and brings it over.

"I have to advise against this, Mr. Zuckerberg. Even though technically it isn't prohibited by the shareholder agreement, the tax implications alone are absurd," his lawyer says firmly, clutching the papers like he thinks Mark might rip them out of his hands.

"I don't care," Mark says, and his lawyer sighs and hands the papers over, and Mark looks through them and signs them. And then, because he can't make any of this any worse, he writes _i wish i had been building ferris wheels_ in a shaky hand at the bottom; his lawyer reads it, and his face softens a little, and he folds the papers carefully.

"You'll have them hand delivered? Just to him, I don't want...” And he trails off, because he's not sure what he doesn't want; doesn't want people to know? Everyone is going to know, that isn't what he cares about.

"I'll make sure the messenger knows not to let anyone else sign for them," His lawyer says gently, and leaves quietly.

Mark sits there for a while longer, and then he gets up and goes into his bedroom and sleeps for two days.


	9. Chapter 9

When he wakes up, his body is stiff, and his head aches the way it always does when he's slept for too long. He's too hot, burrowed under the thick comforter, and he's really thirsty, and the afternoon sun streaming in through his bedroom window is painfully bright.

Also, there's someone else in bed with him.

"How are you feeling?" Eduardo asks, like it's perfectly normal for him to be sitting on the other side of Mark's bed in his shirtsleeves, reading Mark's dog-eared copy of the Aeneid, while Mark sleeps.

"What are you doing in my house?" Mark asks blankly. Eduardo carefully sets the book aside, and picks up an envelope from the bedside table.

"What's this?" Eduardo asks, and holds it out to Mark like Mark doesn't know what's in it. Mark doesn't take it.

"It's 24% of Facebook's voting shares." Mark says flatly, and Eduardo looks a little rueful.

"Okay," He says, and he sounds -- Mocking? Amused? Mark doesn't know. "You know I can't take these, right?" Eduardo asks slowly, and why is he even-- if he doesn't--

"I want you to have them." Mark answers shortly, and wishes he were still asleep.

"I kind of got that part, actually. I just don't understand why. Mark--"

"Why are you even here?" Mark asks in a rush, feeling that horrible hitch in his chest again; he closes his eyes, miserable. "I don't want to fight about it anymore. Would you just take them?"

"Mark..." There's silence, and then a slight rustle, the sound of Eduardo sliding off the bed; his feet don't make any noise on the thick carpeting as he leaves. Mark's heart sinks, even though it's basically what he'd just asked for; he keeps his eyes closed, and tells himself, _go back to sleep_.

But the sound of his blinds shooting down makes Mark jump, and he opens his eyes to find Eduardo standing by the window, carefully turning the little stick that makes the slats close until just a sliver of light cuts through.

"You should take some aspirin," Eduardo says quietly, "And take a shower, and put on clean clothes. I'll make you something to eat. We can talk after that, okay?"

He's giving Mark a look that Mark almost recognizes, because Eduardo had looked at him that way before thefacebook was even an idea, soft and exasperated and worried, but now it's all mixed up with frustration and anger and distrust. Mark doesn't know what it means when you put all of that together, anymore than he'd known what the less complicated version meant back then; but it's enough to make him hope, and that makes his chest ache worse than ever, but he nods, and watches Eduardo walk out of the room.

After a couple of minutes he drags himself out of bed, and heads for the shower. He lets the water beat down, and thinks about what Eduardo had said, about trust, and about it always being about Facebook, about not seeing it coming; he thinks about reasons, about being scared, and angry, and too proud to admit to either one; he thinks about chances, and wasting them, how it felt when he ran out; he thinks about how much he wants just one more.

When he gets downstairs, Eduardo has set out a plate with a huge sandwich, cut into quarters, on the breakfast bar; Mark slides onto the stool in front of it, and looks over to the other end, where Eduardo is sitting, reading the Aeneid again.

"I didn't think I had any food in the house," Mark says, because it's easy, trivial.

"Chris and Dustin did some shopping for you," Eduardo answers without looking up, and Mark hmms and picks up a quarter of the sandwich carefully. Neither one of them say anything while Mark eats the huge sandwich and drinks the equally huge glass of water that Eduardo had left next to it, and Eduardo doesn't even look up from the Aeneid, but it feels nice, and Mark lets the silence stretch out even when he's done, just leaning forward onto the breakfast bar, watching Eduardo read.

"I was in Tokyo when your courier found me," Eduardo says finally, more to the book than to Mark, "And I thought it was... I don't know. A joke, maybe, or a really good forgery. But I called Chris, and then I called Dustin, and I couldn't get through to either one of them, and I called the main Facebook switch board and they told me that _no one_ was available to speak with me, and all I could think was that you had-- so I booked a ticket on the next flight out." And he finally looks up, and it's easy to see the residual terror there, because Eduardo isn't making any attempt to hide it. Mark folds a little into himself, drops his eyes and says,

"’wardo, I didn't mean to--" but Eduardo just shakes his head.

"I know. I mean, obviously, once I got here-- Chris told me, so-- I know. But I still don't know what this is all supposed to be, Mark. I don't understand what you're trying to tell me, here." But he looks like he wants to, and Mark knows that this is it, he has to try, so he nods slowly and says,

"I--" And it's hard, but he thinks back to standing in his office in the dark, looking out at the empty desks of Facebook; remembers _knowing_ that Eduardo was never going to forgive him, and closes his eyes and says, as steadily as he can, "I wanted to go into business with you because you were my best friend, and I thought… but you had Christy, and New York, and the Phoenix, and you didn't come out, and you wouldn’t stop pushing the advertisers, you just _didn’t get it_ , all you cared about was monetizing it, and-- You didn’t _need_ Facebook, ‘wardo, you had all these other options and all I had was Facebook, and you didn't even _care_ about Facebook, and I knew, I _knew_ that it wasn’t going to work, you as CFO, because it wasn’t the right fit, but you wouldn’t even come out to California to _try_ , and then-- when you froze the account, I was _so angry_. You weren’t just _leaving_ , you were going to _destroy_ Facebook, when it was all I had and it _hurt_ and I-- I wanted to show you-- what it felt like. And I didn’t want to admit -- it was so easy to tell myself it was just a business decision, that I was just doing what was best for Facebook, because Facebook didn't need you and would be better off without you and--"

"And you were right," Eduardo interrupts, voice heavy, but Mark hunches over the counter, shakes his head.

" _Facebook_ didn't," He forces out, "But I-- I _missed_ you. 'wardo, I _missed you_. _Please_ , I-- I _didn’t_ know, that you-- that-- I'm _sorry_ , I--" And he chokes on it, and he knows it isn't enough, there’s no way it’s enough, Eduardo won't-- but there's a cool hand on the back of his neck suddenly, and Eduardo says,

"Hey, hey, Mark," and pulls at Mark until Mark stumbles off the kitchen stool. Eduardo lets Mark wrap both of his arms around Eduardo's waist and clutch at the back of his shirt, lets him bury his face against his shoulder; he says things like, "Hey, it's okay, Mark, it's _fine_ ," and " _Mark_ , don't, I’m sorry, Mark, _please_ don’t" and runs his hands over Mark's back and presses kisses into Mark's damp hair until, finally, Mark's breathing evens out, and,

"Sorry," Mark manages, eventually. When he pulls back a little, Eduardo smoothes a shaky hand along Mark's jaw, but he doesn't try to force Mark's chin up or duck down to meet Mark's eyes, just presses his cheek against Mark's hair and says,

"I'm sorry, too," voice rough, and tired, “I _didn’t_ know what I was doing, I didn’t know a damn thing about being CFO for a company like Facebook; I should have told you to find someone who did, but-- I wanted _you_ , Mark. I wanted you more than I wanted anything, but you were so focused on Facebook, and if all I could be to you was CFO of Facebook… then I wasn’t going to give that up. And the account -- it was childish, it was petty and stupid, but I was so desperate…” and there's an echo of old pain that makes Mark clutch at him a little more tightly as he confesses, "Mark, I felt so obvious. I thought you had to have known, and just didn't want me."

"No, 'wardo, I--" Mark protests anxiously, but Eduardo touches his face gently, runs the pad of his thumb up over Mark's cheek, and agrees,

"No, you never did notice that sort of thing. Mark." Eduardo says, and Mark finally looks up, and Eduardo looks terrified, but strangely exultant, and Mark doesn't breathe as he says, "Mark. I'm _still_ in love with you."

"Oh," Mark gasps out, and leans up and presses his lips against Eduardo's jaw frantically, "Thank god. Me too. I mean, I'm in love with you too, 'wardo, I--"

But he doesn't get any further because Eduardo bends down and gets them lined up properly, and it's like last time but better, because Eduardo kisses him desperately, pulls Mark to him like he's trying to make them into one person, and Mark kisses him back, leans into him recklessly, runs his hands through Eduardo's hair, over his neck and shoulders and arms, clutches at Eduardo and puts everything he has into it, and at first it's frantic, almost vicious, but before long Eduardo slows it down into something gentler, something sweeter and more sure, and it fills all the holes that Mark had spent so long ignoring, smoothes the jagged edges of panic and fear, replaces it all with something that feels a little like hope and a little like certainty; when Eduardo finally starts to pull away, Mark whines low in his throat and tries to follow, but Eduardo doesn't go far, pulling back just enough to drop another light kiss onto Mark's temple, and Mark relaxes.

"So we're... okay?" Mark asks hesitantly, pushing forward and fitting his head under Eduardo’s chin hopefully. Eduardo laughs a little against his hair.

"I think we will be," Eduardo replies quietly, and Mark exhales sharply, pulls Eduardo even closer, presses a kiss against Eduardo’s collar bone, and shuts up, because he has a history of it but this time, this time he’s not going to fuck it up.


	10. Chapter 10

The next time Mark wakes up, he has a disorienting moment of déjà-vu. He’s too hot, buried under his thick comforter again, and he’s really thirsty, and for a few awful seconds he’s sure he dreamed all of it, that really he’s alone in the house and Eduardo hasn’t forgiven him and isn’t ever going to forgive him, and Mark will just have to find a way to live with that. But the sunlight peeking through the blinds is coming in through carefully closed slats, and it’s the weak pink of sunset, not the bright light of mid-afternoon. Also--

“Hey,” Eduardo greets sleepily

\--Eduardo is in bed with him.

“You’re here,” Mark says, rolling over with a heavy, relieved sigh, and the corners of Eduardo’s eyes crinkle.

“I am,” Eduardo agrees easily, and slides over until he’s pressed up all alongside Mark, then props himself up on one elbow and stares down at Mark. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Mark answers, then, belatedly, “You?” Because Eduardo had looked as exhausted as Mark had felt, when they’d finally made it back up to Mark’s bed; the long flight, Eduardo had explained, when his words had begun to slur together with exhaustion, but Mark had thought it far more likely that the shadows under Eduardo’s eyes owed more to the drain of hours of uncertainty and fear than they did to simple jetlag.

“Better,” Eduardo answers simply, and, indeed, Mark decides as he searches Eduardo’s face critically, the shadows under Eduardo’s eyes have lightened noticeably, and the fuzzy haze of exhaustion is gone. Eduardo returns Mark’s gaze steadily when Mark finally meets his eyes, and something about the slow smile spreading over Eduardo’s lips makes Mark’s heartbeat pick up.

“You know,” Eduardo says thoughtfully, “I used to think about this all the time, in your room in Kirkland. What it would be like if I could ever get you into bed.”

“You did?” Mark asks, startled.

“Mmm. I would watch you, while you were coding, and I would think about what it would be like if I pulled you away; whether or not I could make you pay as much attention to me as you did to that computer,” Eduardo confesses, and Mark feels his own eyes go wide, because-- well, because it’s unexpected. Both that Eduardo would say such a thing and that he’d had… fantasies? Mark’s own inclinations towards Eduardo at Harvard had certainly never been anything more concrete than the desire to have Eduardo around, all of the time, even when Mark was doing something else.

“I think you would have had a very good chance of that,” Mark informs Eduardo honestly, because his heart is already going about a mile a minute and Eduardo hasn’t even _done_ anything yet. Eduardo smiles at the reply, and Mark swallows, because there’s a hot edge to it that is unfamiliar but extremely, well, intriguing.

“I think I have an even better chance of it now,” Eduardo says confidently, voice going deep and strange, and _hey, that’s Eduardo’s sex voice!_ , Mark’s brain informs him helpfully, even as Eduardo leans down and brushes his lips against Mark’s own. Mark immediately parts his lips, leaning up eagerly, but Eduardo just kisses him gently, brushing his tongue lightly across Mark’s lower lip before pulling back. Eduardo ignores the outraged noise Mark makes in favor of kissing his way down Mark’s neck, and Mark foregoes further protest in favor of groaning involuntarily and tilting his head to the side to give Eduardo better access. His neck has never been an erogenous zone of any particular importance before now, but every light brush of Eduardo’s lips and every tiny bite sends an electric jolt through Mark’s entire system.

Mark’s body makes the jump from _sleep_ to _now now now_ immediately, and Mark is panting out tiny, desperate noises before he realizes it; he bites his lip to stifle himself, and reaches up to pull Eduardo down against him, huffing triumphantly as Eduardo’s body meets his own and Mark feels the fully hard length against his hip. But Eduardo just laughs, hot and low into his ear, even as Mark holds Eduardo’s hips steady and grinds up urgently, already almost fully hard himself.

*

“Slow down,” Eduardo chides, and bites at Mark’s collar bone firmly, easing the sting with a lingering swipe of his tongue when Mark lets out an involuntary _Ah!_ of surprise, but Mark just groans again and arches up into it. Obligingly, Eduardo bites down again, and, very distantly, Mark realizes that he’ll have a mark there for days, that it will be perfectly visible above the collar line of every shirt he owns. The thought is fierce and glad, and Mark tugs urgently at Eduardo’s shoulders until Eduardo lets Mark pull him up, parts his lips obediently when Mark kisses him fiercely, groans when Mark bites at his lower lip and sweeps a possessive tongue against Eduardo’s own.

“I don’t want to slow down,” Mark pants out when he finally releases Eduardo’s mouth, because this is already better than anything he’d ever done with Erica, or any of the infrequent men or women he’s let take him home after various functions over the years. Mark has never understood the human obsession with sex, but, he thinks as he runs his hands over every inch of skin he can reach, it’s possible he’s been doing it wrong, because he can understand, suddenly, why people would devote so much of their lives to trying to get this.

“We have time, Mark,” Eduardo says, running his hands down Mark’s sides soothingly. Mark just shakes his head and kisses Eduardo again, wildly, trying to convey that they could have been doing this for _years_ , that they have _so much_ catching up to do.

“’wardo,” Mark grinds out, when Eduardo fails to respond with the appropriate level of haste, insisting instead upon kissing Mark devastatingly slowly, nipping at Mark’s lips gently and exploring every inch of Mark’s mouth with his tongue, “We can go slow later, just, please, _please_ , I need you, I need--”

And something about that clearly gets to Eduardo, because he goes still above Mark, staring at him intently, before ducking down again to kiss Mark savagely.

“God, Mark,” Eduardo says, voice almost shaking, hands running everywhere, possessive, burning hot across Mark’s skin, “I want you, I want you, will you let me?”

“Yes, yes, ‘wardo, yes, anything,” Mark says, letting Eduardo press him into the mattress and kiss him desperately; lifting his hips obligingly when he feels Eduardo’s fingers at the waist of his boxers. Eduardo strips them off smoothly and keeps kissing Mark even as he strips off his own, and Mark can’t help the embarrassingly high pitched noise he makes into Eduardo’s mouth when Eduardo brings their erections together for the first time, hot and so, so good. Mark thrusts up helplessly, and Eduardo breaks off the kiss with a groan, panting wetly into Mark’s neck as shoves a hand down to wrap around both of them, long fingers squeezing, pressing the heads of their cocks together until Mark can feel the slide of Eduardo’s precum mixing with his own.

“Fuck, fuck,” Mark chants, panting up at the ceiling as he thrusts, trying to get enough leverage to really make it good, but Eduardo is pressing him down relentlessly, keeping Mark’s movements shallow and just this side of satisfying.

“You’re so, god, Mark, you’re so beautiful,” Eduardo breathes reverently, when Mark glares up at him, aching and desperate, and swoops down to kiss him again and again, squeezing erratically, teasingly until Mark is moaning and clutching at Eduardo’s shoulders like he’s drowning, practically mad with the need to just get a regular rhythm going; and it takes him a while to realize that Eduardo is still talking, that Eduardo is asking, “Mark, can I? Mark, do you have, _Mark_ , where do you keep--“ And it takes Mark a second, but he finally flails a hand wildly in the direction of the nightstand on his side of the bed.

Eduardo curses under his breath and peels himself off Mark, throwing himself across the empty span of the bed to pull the drawer of the nightstand open violently. Mark watches Eduardo fish through the drawer frantically, panting as his head clears a little, and reaches down to wrap a hand around his cock, stroking idly, watching the stretch of muscles in Eduardo’s back, the swell of his backside, until Eduardo finally comes up with the bottle of lube Mark keeps there and an old condom, kept more out of idle fancy than any real expectation.

*

Eduardo turns back toward Mark, and he swears again as his eyes immediately fix on Mark playing with himself, breathy and low, and it sounds absolutely filthy, but it’s in Portuguese so Mark can’t be sure.

“Mark, _Mark_ ,” Eduardo says, eyes shining with lust and desire and wonder, and he crawls back over the bed, uncapping the bottle of lube, spilling it messily all over his fingers as he settles unsteadily between Mark’s legs. “Have you done this before?” Eduardo asks, and the question sounds rhetorical, Eduardo’s eyes fixed on Mark’s cock as Mark squeezes and groans and thrusts up into his own hand. But Mark can’t get out the answer he knows Eduardo is expecting to hear, and when Mark doesn’t answer Eduardo raises his head, eyes going wide.

“Not-- exactly.” Mark manages in the face of Eduardo’s astonishment, feeling the burn of an embarrassed flush start to spread across his face. Eduardo just stares, then practically falls forward, crawling up Mark to kiss him fiercely, recklessly, threading his clean hand through Mark’s hair, pulling gently, possessively, tipping Mark’s head back to get a better angle. Mark brings both arms up around Eduardo’s shoulders, cups one hand around the back of Eduardo’s neck and just kisses him back, letting himself revel in it, the feeling of astonished delight that Eduardo is somehow managing to convey through his kiss, the look of pure, awestruck love that had flashed across his face.

“Mark,” Eduardo breathes softly, when he finally breaks the kiss, brushing a thumb across Mark’s cheek gently, and he doesn’t say it, but the look he gives Mark is endearingly earnest, and Mark stares up at him, feeling absurdly besotted, and says,

“’wardo,” just as gently, and Eduardo kisses him again, and again, and really, it’s quite sometime before Eduardo finally scoots back down Mark’s body, leaving a trail of gentle kisses in his wake, and brushes his fingers down and back, rubbing gently at the entrance of Mark’s body with wet fingers.

“’wardo!” Mark says again, more urgently this time, pressing back firmly as Eduardo pulls back slightly. Eduardo stares up at Mark’s face, mouth open as he breathes harshly, and presses one finger firmly against Mark’s entrance, letting Mark push back and down against it until it slips inside, and Mark gasps and pushes down again, feeling the slender digit slip further inside, the strange feeling of being breached. Eduardo is looking down now, at where his finger is disappearing into Mark’s body, and, “Another,” Mark instructs impatiently, because he’s done this much before and he knows he can take it.

Eduardo obeys with huge, dark eyes, pulling the first finger out and then sliding slowly back in with two. Mark groans, feels his cock twitch at the burn as Eduardo pushes in relentlessly and then scissors his fingers gently until Mark relaxes. He pulls out and adds a third before Mark has to demand it, and Mark jumps and moans as Eduardo’s fingers brush against his prostate. “There!” Mark gasps out, and Eduardo leans down and brushes a gentle kiss against the inside of Mark’s thigh and keeps moving his fingers in and out, slowly, steadily, hitting that same spot over and over until Mark is a sweaty, shaky mess, cock leaking precum steadily against his stomach.

“Ready?” Eduardo asks, softly, and Mark nods, then groans as Eduardo pulls his fingers out slowly. But there’s the crackle of a condom being torn open, and Eduardo is pulling Mark’s legs up, pressing them up and back and leaning forward to kiss Mark quickly, before he reaches down and Mark feels the blunt tip of Eduardo’s cock press against his hole.

*

“F-fuck,” Mark manages as Eduardo presses in, and he feels huge, nothing like fingers at all, and it burns and burns and burns, and Mark tilts his head back and squeezes his eyes shut even as Eduardo pauses and rubs his hands over the inside of Mark’s thighs soothingly, reaches up a little and wraps long fingers around Mark’s cock and squeezes; Mark shakes at the sudden, discordant jolt of pleasure and relaxes a tiny bit, and Eduardo slides a little bit further in, and then a little more and a little more, until he’s seated fully, the whole hot, hard length of him inside Mark, his weight pressing Mark into the mattress, anchoring Mark as Mark struggles to adjust, as the pain eases into discomfort and then into a strange, burning pleasure that spreads up into his belly and his chest and out into his limbs until his whole body is thrumming with it.

“’s good,” Mark gasps out, opening his eyes to find Eduardo staring at him intently. Eduardo shifts his hips minutely, cock dragging over Mark’s prostate again, and it’s like arcs of electricity racing through Mark’s body, hitting every nerve ending in waves of pleasure until he feels like his entire body has to be lighting up; he lets his eyes flutter closed and arches into it.

Eduardo breathes something out in Portuguese and pulls almost all of the way out, slowly, before pushing back in again, and again, and again, until Mark moans and wraps his legs around Eduardo’s waist, plants his arms firmly on the mattress and pushes up into as best as he can, pulling Eduardo into him harder, faster, until Eduardo gives up and pushes Mark’s legs up as far as they will go. Mark shouts as Eduardo pushes back in viciously, writhes as Eduardo pounds into him until Mark is sobbing out every wave of pleasure, hands fisted madly in the sheets, practically delirious with it, and only then does Eduardo reach down between them to wrap a hand around Mark’s cock.

It’s all Mark needs to tip him over the edge, waves of pleasure crashing into each other until his whole body is a discordant mess of it, every nerve ending firing off, lighting up, colors swimming behind Mark’s eyes as his body convulses, come shooting messily over Eduardo’s knuckles and Mark’s chest, his head thrown back, fingers scrambling madly at Eduardo’s shoulders, hole clenching greedily around Eduardo’s length as Eduardo pumps into him once, twice and then goes still very suddenly, dropping forward and only just bringing his hand up to catch himself in time, breathing _mark mark mark_ through the aftershocks, hips thrusting helplessly every time Mark twitches around him, kissing Mark messily until they’ve both stopped shuddering.

*

“God, Mark,” Eduardo says shakily, and kisses him again, and Mark returns the kiss, lifts unsteady hands and runs them over Eduardo’s cheeks and brows, cups his face and pressing their lips together reverently, feeling overwhelmed and tremorous and entirely too full of things he has no idea how to begin to say.

After a while, though, Eduardo pulls back. Mark winces as he pulls out gently and lets Eduardo fetch the warm wash cloth, get them both cleaned up, and slip Mark back into his boxers, running gentle hands over Mark the whole while.

“I love you,” Eduardo says quietly, easily, when he’s slipped back into his own boxers and under the sheets, and Mark sighs shakily and pulls Eduardo to him. Eduardo wraps one arm around Mark, but Mark takes Eduardo’s other hand in both of his own, and looks up at Eduardo, terrified and exultant, and thinks he knows how Eduardo had felt when he’d made his own confession not so long ago.

“I love you, too,” He says, steadily, and it’s awful, how true it is, how much Mark needs Eduardo to know exactly how true it is. So he swallows, and meets Eduardo’s eyes, and asks, as steadily as he can manage, “’wardo, will you-- will you stay with me?” And then, hurriedly, “I don’t care where. Here. Singapore. New York. I don’t care -- we’ll move headquarters, we’ll do whatever we have to do, but will you-- ‘wardo. Will you stay with me?” And his hands are shaking like mad, and Eduardo looks shocked and exultant and equally terrified, but he says,

“Yes, yes, Mark,” and pulls Mark in and kisses him with light, stunned, happy kisses, and says, voice full of wonder, “I will. I’ll stay. I’ll stay with you.”

And Mark doesn’t have a damn clue what they’re doing, but he’s sure -- they’re going to figure it out.


End file.
